Mime of Your Courtesan

she sat on the earth,
soil saturated with nutrients
of ancient civilizations, for what
I am worth,

I asked her when
the defining moment
was; "vintage grimoires,
sage, it was mathers and
w.b. yeats influence, but . . .
you're asking me something
of a different golden dawn, you
are . . . attraction sweeps me to
your corn broom religion from afar,
beds me all wrapped up in free thinking,
I am the mime of your courtesan, unexpurgated,
two millenia of pursuing prudery . . ."

explicit academic
version, and those
desires of hers suffice
her, tree inspired, candid
and wild, she, a liberal giver
of ten drachmas she hid for
centuries for my price, I begged
her to rip my tunic and bewitch me . . .
"you're asking me something of a different
golden dawn, you are . . . I am under your influence
for what the soil saturates with nutrients of ancient
civilizations, I have those ancient wet roots to oblige you . . .
dark and late as it is . . ."

the forest primes her magician,
her enchantments in my bed, urging,
I watch the print of her feet pass by, I place
my feet in her footprints, filling her out adoring
her sensuous splurging, she said "I am the mime
of your courtesan . . ."

dark and late as it is, I . . .

count my drachmas,
courtesan.

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist